


maybe sprout wings

by InkCaviness



Series: Sylvix Week 2020 [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Gender Issues, Implied Transphobia, Implied homophobia, Kinda?, M/M, Makeup, Mental Health Issues, Post-War, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Sylvix Week (Fire Emblem), They/Them Pronouns for My Unit | Byleth, again it's all sorts vague, body issues, felix has character development off screen, general tw for sylvain's Issues, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26586457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkCaviness/pseuds/InkCaviness
Summary: The tube is heavy in his hand, sturdy metal, and when he experimentally presses it to the back of his hand the lipstick leaves a stain of rich, bright red. This kind of pigment must have been expensive. Throwing it away would be a shame, would be almost criminal he thinks. He turns it over in his hand. The texture of the lipstick had been smooth, almost velvety, and he has no memory of kissing it off her lips. Maybe he does see her again sometime. Maybe that little thought can be a reality. Maybe he could-He shoves the lipstick far into the back of his desk drawer and resolves to forget about it.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: Sylvix Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1935136
Comments: 12
Kudos: 55





	maybe sprout wings

**Author's Note:**

> this is for sylvix week day 1, prompt: after the war/future!  
> the title is from [maybe sprout wings](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=isYBSJXrxAc)  
> by the mountain goats

Some girl lost the tube of lipstick in his dorm room. He finds it, three days later, rolled behind his bed and shoves it into his pocket without thinking. And yet it doesn’t leave his mind that day, the small container burning against his leg throughout class. He doesn’t look at it again until he’s in his room that night, alone at once, everyone else in bed already or at least quietly retired to their rooms. From the look of it the lipstick is still unused, a deep crimson red he wouldn’t have expected from this girl. He doesn’t remember her name or maybe he never bothered to learn it, he isn’t quite sure anymore. They didn’t date, they only met up that one night and he doesn’t remember much about her except that her hair had felt almost like silk between his fingers and that she had twin birthmarks on both sides of her hips. She’d slipped out of his room before he’d even pretended to be asleep, gathering up her clothes quickly and vanishing without a word. Somehow he doubts she’d be all too happy about seeing him again.

The tube is heavy in his hand, sturdy metal, and when he experimentally presses it to the back of his hand the lipstick leaves a stain of rich, bright red. This kind of pigment must have been expensive. Throwing it away would be a shame, would be almost criminal he thinks. He turns the tube over in his hand. The texture of the lipstick had been smooth, almost velvety, and he has no memory of kissing it off her lips. Maybe he _does_ see her again sometime. Maybe that little thought can be a reality. Maybe he could-

He shoves the lipstick far into the back of his desk drawer and resolves to forget about it.

-

It turns out he really doesn’t see the girl again. He wishes he would, not because he had an interest in her but, well, he knows how important makeup can be for some girls and it’s just a shame to waste the lipstick like this, isn’t it? He spends an afternoon almost desperately trying to remember where he met her in the first place. It’s definitely not just because Felix is trying to hunt him down to train, it’s just that the rattle of the metal tube every time he opens the desk drawer is starting to get annoying and it’s… _distracting_. There’s a part of him that’s thinking about it too much. He knows what it’s like to kiss red painted lips, to trace them with his thumb or even feel them mouthing along his throat. He wonders what that color would feel like on his lips. He wonders what it would look like to leave behind red marks.

He wonders how to get rid of the lipstick as fast as possible.

Throwing it in the trash means someone would find it, somewhere along the way. He’s a walking scandal on his best days but that thought weighs heavy in the pit of his stomach.

In the end it’s easiest to just lose it. It slips out of his pocket easily enough somewhere in the entrance hall, unnoticed and gone in a second.

-

His eyes still hang on every girl he meets. He can’t remember when it became a reflex, when flirting words became his default introduction, but it must have been around the time his voice started to crack. Never being taken seriously makes life easy. There are no expectations for him, no real ones at least, just get married and take over his father’s title and really that’s the only option there’s ever been anyways. He can’t disappoint his friends when all they expect of him is to crash and burn. So what if he’s bitter about it, so what if it hurts that even if he tried there’d be no changing his reputation now.

As a child, he dreamt about true love, the kind of love the knight’s tales sing praise of, the kind that conquers all. A beautiful, radiant maiden and her honest, valiant knight. They’re perfect together, predestined for each other and yet always fall in the exact social role that’s expected of them. He spent hours staring at the illustrations, the fine details, the handsome armored knight, backlit by a golden glow as he returns from battle, victorious of course. He saw knights like this sometimes, when they went to visit the capital. Strong men with their heads held high, armor polished and shining in the bright afternoon sun. Sylvain is giddy about the thought, his trembling hands gripping the wooden training lance he carries around with him way too often because he wants to be like _them._

Sometimes he traces the illustrations of the pretty maidens with his fingertips, carefully, and imagines what those beautiful dresses would feel like. They always have long, cascading hair that almost seems to spill off the pages and gowns decorated with jewels and gold embroidery. One time he’s allowed to stay with his mother while she prepares for the opera. He stares in wonder at the abundance of little tins filled with powder and rouge and lipstick pastes. Sylvain thinks about what those makeup brushes would feel like against his cheeks, soft as a summer breeze, he muses.

“This must be boring for you.” His mother’s voice pulls him out of that land of daydreams like the hook on a fishing line. She’s mustering him with vacant eyes and he knows he’s not allowed to look away but suddenly he wishes he could run and hide. “Makeup is no business for boys but remember when you court a girl she will love gifts like this. Every girl wants to be pretty.”

A nods, wide eyed, and marks it down in his memory. He likes looking at those illustrations and makeup tins filled with mesmerizing colors because he wants a girl who’s _pretty._

He buries the idea of valiant knight, true love and a shining destiny. It doesn’t take long for him to get old enough to realize that power and money and a _name_ will erase all of that in a heartbeat. But he never forgets his mother’s words.

Sylvain makes sure to look at every pretty girl and it’s easy because _every_ girl is pretty. He’s a connoisseur for it by the time he enters Garreg Mach, appreciating the way a girl’s lips curve softly into a smile, the way their hair tumbles over their shoulders in soft curls, the way they grip their skirts to run up the stairs. At the monastery he meets girls who best him in every training fight, girls in mud covered boots and choppy short cropped hair and every single one of them is as pretty as his childhood dreams.

He tries not to notice the way men draw his eyes. He tries not to notice that his childhood friends are starting to grow up handsome. He tries not to notice that there are boys who are _pretty_ , with soft hands and plush lips. When he watches them train it’s because he wants to _be like them_ , maybe save whatever broken pieces of his reputation can still be mended and become that knight he used to read about.

It’s all just in comparison. When he watches the girls he stitches together the pieces to dream up his perfect _true love_ and when he lies awake at night thinking about running his hands over broad shoulder and strong arms it’s just so he can shape himself like that. After all, every girl is pretty and every pretty girl dreams of a strong knight.

-

Losing the lipstick is not that easy. He should’ve known, nothing is ever that easy, but maybe he’s been getting away with too much lately.

The new professor stops him after choir practice. Their expression is blank as usual, unreadable even for him, no matter how good he thinks he is at figuring people out. It’s unnerving, that feeling of something lurking beneath the surface. He can’t help but wonder what secrets their professor is hiding. Maybe it’s nothing at all. Maybe he’s started seeing secrets in every eye that meets his but mostly just in the mirror.

Byleth holds out their hand without a word. He immediately recognizes the shine of the little object offered to him. It would be so easy to say it’s not his, he’s never seen that before, they should really just ask Mercedes or Hilda or any of the other girls _or_ -

“Oh! That’s mine…,” he says instead, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck. “Thanks Professor. You really saved the day.”

He’s not sure the professor has blinked even once during this. They don’t really react, just move their hand close. Sylvain reluctantly takes tube. It feels like the touch is going to burn his fingertips to ash and he quickly stuffs it into his pocket before he can start thinking about it too much.

“Well, of course it’s not _mine_ ,” he rambles on while the professor continues to stand and stare. “Some girl must’ve left it in my room, ya know how it is! I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to have it back so really thanks for saving me this time, professor! She would’ve been real mad, I’m sure!”

His voice sounds shrill to his own ears. There’s something knowing in the professor’s eyes and he wants to yell at them to _shut up_ , wants to claw out the lump stuck in his throat and bury it far away, deep in the forest of his homeland. Maybe there’s nothing in their eyes at all, maybe he just longs for some knowing.

“It’s a nice color.”

That’s all Byleth says before turning on the heel and leaving.

There was no knowing there, why should there have been any recognition. He has a reputation, carefully cultivated over years, and none of this was really a lie. And still he can’t shake the feeling of dread lodged firmly in his ribcage and how much he wishes to unravel it.

A war breaks out across the continent. They lose the professor, their prince is executed and the world might be ending, at least the way it’s been before.

The lipstick stays unused, still hidden away in his dorm room as Garreg Mach falls into ruins.

* * *

After the war Sylvain returns to castle Gautier. He makes it back just before winter starts to make the forests impassable and leaves Dimitri and Felix behind in the capital, ready to stitch back together a war torn continent. The castle is cold. It’s barely the start of (November) but after weeks in the summer warmth much further south it suddenly feels like the chill is trying to climb straight into his bones. His parents are as cold as their estate. There’s work to be done, there are old conflicts to be mended but he knows that as long as his father is around everything will stay as it has always been, frozen in ice.

He throws himself into his work behind the scenes. Preparing to become margrave, preparing to help his friends do everything that’s necessary to repair the damage that’s been done the past five years and hoping they can tackle the task while he’s _stuck_ here. He could’ve stayed in the capital, could’ve stayed with the people who make him feel like maybe there’s more out there than what awaits him in castle Gautier. More than what has ever awaited him. Reform takes time to reach the far north parts of the kingdom and for now his father continues on. He could’ve stayed in the capital but he knows his work here doesn’t just start once his father dies.

Throughout the winter he throws himself into preparations. There’s a stack of books from the monastery under his desk, not quite hidden away but discreet enough to avoid questions. Books detailing the history and culture of Sreng, old contracts, records of trade routes from a time of peace that’s been long gone. He starts comparing them to modern maps, starts making lists of supplies Gautier lacks during the cold months that used to be provided through traders landing at the ports of Sreng. There was a time when Sreng had an active naval trade with both Almyra and the eastern parts of the Leister Alliance, ships landing on the more accessible shores of the peninsula and then being transported further inland all the way to Gautier territory. This system fell apart over two centuries ago, the trade routes long gone, replaced by a never ending war at the border. It hurt both countries, the lack of fertile lands for agriculture driving each side to try and grab more and more land but really without a working trade system none of that helped.

-

Neither of his parents expect much contribution from him. He was raised as the heir, of course, and trained accordingly, but as long as he doesn’t fall from their graces, as long as he doesn’t utterly _waste_ his potential, his parents don’t expect him to be extraordinary. As long as he marries a suitable girl and carries on the title, he’s allowed to be as much of a good-for-nothing noble as he wants.

His father doesn’t ask his opinion on anything. Sylvain sits with him through meetings, diligently cataloguing the relationships that hold their territory together and the conflicts that prevent it from becoming better. They barely speak. The margrave is a gruff man, a figure that seemed towering to Sylvain as a child, an ice covered mountain that should be respected, if not feared. The thought is strange now, looking back. His father is just a little shorter than him, and he does his best not to show it but the years have worn him out, perhaps more than other men his age. He almost never sheds the thick fur coat around his shoulders bare for the warmest summer days and the hair at his temple has been gray for as long as Sylvain can remember. Now, there are only hints of red left, the rest faded out to almost snow white. The margrave’s eyes stare straight ahead at all times, steely blue and set deep under harsh brows. Sylvain can count on one hand the times he’s seen his father smile and none of them had been at him.

His mother talks a lot and says very little. As a child he loved her, Sylvain thinks. A radiant mother, flitting from room to room in the castle and always telling him grand tales from her youth in the capital. The older he gets the more he realizes how repetitive they are. It’s true, she did grow up in the capital, but according to their marriage certificate his parents got married when they were both barely 18, even younger than what is expected of Sylvain, and there are few new tales to add after she became the margravine. His grandfather had died early, that’s another thing Sylvain discovers from records rather than tales, and Gautier lands must have been harsh for a young girl from the high society in Fhirdiad. She talks about her wedding day from time to time, about how it was the sunniest day of the year and how there had been flowers woven into her hair, baby’s breath and windflowers and daisies. It’s a memory she smiles broadly at, even though it doesn’t reach her eyes. It never does.

Where his father’s eyes are filled with a sort of cold and grim determination, his mother’s eyes just look sad. They have the same eyes; large, light brown, and perpetually full of melancholy. He studies them in the mirror sometimes, tries to conjure up his happiest memory and grin at himself, and yet they just won’t light up with happiness the way he wants them to. Throughout his childhood he tells himself they’re both just born that way, his mother and him. They’re happy after all, what would there be to truly be unhappy about.

One time his mother lets him see her wedding dress. It’s not as elaborate as the ones from his books, a simple gown of heavy, creamy white linen, brought in at the waist by a red ribbon that flows all the way to the floor. And yet when he looks closer in awe there’s fine lace stitches to the sleeves and along the hem, the thread so fine it runs like water through his hands. His mother looks excited as she explains that her best friend had made all the lace, the best wedding gift she ever could have asked for.

Sylvain looks up at her with a giddy grin and swings his little legs under the chair.

“I can’t wait to have a wedding like that!”

He doesn’t know what he did wrong or why his mother’s expression suddenly sours or why she tucks away the dress in a box and never takes it out again. She doesn’t show him her new dresses after that and when she talks about going to the opera as a young girl she always reminds him of his duties, as if the two were connected.

There’s a deep pain in his chest, like claws gripping around his ribs and squeezing until there’s no air left and he’s 12 when he first thinks that maybe they both weren’t _born_ unhappy.

He tries not to think about Miklan. The well is still there, the portraits are long gone, he never goes into the mountains alone. And he tries not to think about Miklan.

-

Winter is longer than he remembers. It’s strange to just be stuck inside for fourth months after five years of war, huddled up in his room or the perpetually under-heated small library. There are letters almost every week from his friends around the country, finally reuniting with their families and trying to rebuild what is left and reform what was destroyed. He files away the ones containing political information and stores the rest in a wooden box. At some point it had belonged to his grandmother and the top is decorated with beautiful carved flowers, the edges worn smooth with age. Each of Mercedes’ letters carries a hint of her perfume and when he opens the pages it feels like getting a hug from her. He tells her so in one of his letters, tongue or rather quill just a bit too loose after one too many glasses of wine. With her next letter comes a tiny rose tinted glass vial that he quickly swipes from the messenger and hides under the letter in his box.

The box becomes more than just a place for letters. By the time Guardian Moon comes around he has collected a small golden hair pin, a pair of white gloves with pink roses and lavender embroidered across the back, Mercedes’ perfume and, finally, a now slightly spotty metal lipstick tube that hasn’t been opened in years. He hides it away carefully under his bed.

Shortly after, a blizzard makes the route up to Gautier castle impassable. The last letter he receives is from Felix. He’s never been a good letter writer, too curt with his words and he doesn’t seem to see much sense in talking about his personal life. His earlier letters had been merely reports about the political developments in the court and it had taken Sylvain a few months to coax him into at least talking a bit more about what else he’s up to. The answer is, apparently, not much. Felix throws himself into his role as royal advisor with as much fervor as he does into sword fighting. It’s temporary, he says every time he’s asked, he can’t hold Dimitri’s hand through _every_ conflict but that’s what Byleth stayed in the capital for. Still, Felix had decided to help out for now, leaving Fraldarius territory in the hands of a cousin, a short and stern woman whom Sylvain thinks would have thrived at the Officer’s Academy. And yet she too had been laden with the expectation of marrying well and as quickly as possible.

“Irresponsible, leaving the Dukedom like that,” his father sneers after Sylvain passes on Felix’s message, “That boy has never had a sense for what is right.”

Sylvain wants to tell him to shut up, yell at him as if his father knew _anything_ about what’s _right_ in this world, that Felix has done more good so far than the margrave had in his entire life, that Felix is helping rebuild an entire _continent_ instead of just contently continuing to drive a small mountain territory into ruin. Sylvain wants to scream at his father, a sudden shot of anger running through his body because he _isn’t_ a child anymore, he’s just fought a war, he runs his mouth to anyone else so should be able to stand up to his _father_ and-

He doesn’t say anything. His hands are trembling but the words are stuck in his throat. Suddenly he feels small. He feels 14 years old again, paraded around at some dinner party like a prize to be won, the price of a _crest_ and frankly not much else. He feels 14 again and if he just shuts up everyone will love him, while Miklan stares daggers into his back because his older brother will never love him, no matter how much he tries to be quiet. He feels 14 again when he didn’t say much but talked all the more, meaningless flirtations being woven together into what would inevitably become his personality. He feels like 14 because he can’t stand up to his own father about his oldest friend, about one of the most important people in their country, about the man he lov-

He feels like 14 and it’s worse this time because he’s 26 and he knows he could be better.

It’s the worst month. He feels like a child, that horrible time before he came to the Officer’s Academy, after-

After everything that happened. After his friends’ worlds fell apart and his own didn’t, and yet he’d been alone.

He barely speaks a word to anyone. Dragging himself out of bed in the morning, when the sun was barely ever visible outside, feels like wading through waist high sand. When a cook asks him a question Sylvain’s voice comes out rough from disuse.

He can’t fall asleep at night. Instead he sits on the edge of his bed for hours on end and rereads every letter in his box and when he’s done he starts over from the beginning.

One night he sits on the floor in front of his mirror, in the dim light of a single flickering candle and finally puts on the lipstick. It’s a bit smudged and the light washes out the contours of his face but the bright red is stark against his skin.

He sits in almost complete dark, staring at himself for what feels like an eternity until tears start to prick at the corners of his eyes.

They might be from joy, he thinks.

-

For Felix’s birthday, he writes a lengthy letter detailing what had happened in Gautier during the time of the blizzard and inquires about the situation in the capital. It’s formal and a bit stilted with a few passages his father asked him to add. In a separate envelope, sealed with wax, he adds a second letter, much shorter than the first. At the end, he leaves a bright red kiss mark and signs it simply

_With Love,_

_Sylvain_

-

It gets warm enough to shed the heavy winter robes during the Great Tree Moon. Sylvain isn’t one for praying but he still hopes that the new year will be good. His hair has gotten longer since the end of the war, now just so brushing his shoulders in gentle waves. Cutting it would have been a hassle, he reasons, and tied back it doesn’t get into his way much either. Not that there’s much for it to get in the way of. He’s spent the past months mostly reading and writing, preparing for what might be an idealist’s dream but, well, what better time for idealism than right now. The lack of training shows. He doesn’t mind not having to fight every day, he doesn’t crave it the way Felix does and there hasn’t been anyone around he needs to impress.

It shows in his tighter spring clothes. The fabric strains just a little against his belly and his favorite pants that sits high on the waist suddenly won’t close. He digs his fingertips into his skin and feels the soft fat underneath give and for a moment it floods his head with blind panic. That’s not supposed to happen, the knight’s in the books aren’t supposed to look the way he suddenly does in the mirror and he’s already doing so much _wrong_ , he already has the lipstick hidden away and the growing collection of pins for his hair and-

He remembers, with a start, the way the maiden’s gowns would always hug her hips. The way the necklines would dip gently down her shoulders, exposing skin soft to the touch, that gives way under the slight pressure of fingertips instead of firm muscle.

It still takes an hour curled up under the covers of his bed for his breathing to go back to normal.

-

He gets his clothes retailored the next day, and what if the necklines of his new shirts are cut just a little bit wider.

-

Felix arrives on horseback from Fhirdiad on the fifth day of the Garland Moon. There’s a spring to his step, an air of determination that finally isn’t grim like it used to be but rather hopeful. Uncharacteristically for Gautier lands, the sun is shining brightly, warmth seeping deeply into the stone of the castle even though it is barely past noon. Felix must have taken off his coat sometime along the journey, leaving him in only a dark blue doublet, trimmed at the waist, and the sleeves of his billowing white undershirt pushed up past his elbows. Something tightens in Sylvain’s throat as he watches the muscles move in his forearms. He’s gotten broader since the last time they saw each other, peace bulking out what used to be a strong but lean body to one that strains his clothes at the shoulders. Felix crosses the yard in quick strides, handing off his horse to one of the stablehands and then quickly tugging off his riding gloves. Sylvain watches the movement, mesmerized, eyes transfixed on the swordsman’s calloused hands and almost doesn’t realized that he’s started talking.

“-and the way up here sure hasn’t gotten any easier,” Felix finishes. “But not even Dimitri can do anything about that, I guess.”

Sylvain feels like a deer caught in front of the hunter’s arrow. It’s been a while, of course, but they’ve gone longer without seeing each other and Felix really hasn’t changed that much since then. He’s even kept the same tall boots he favored during the war, although they hug his thighs just a little bit tighter now. Finally, Sylvain manages to pull himself out of his head far enough to look at Felix, really look at his face. It’s like the air gets punched out of his lungs. That’s happened before, in real fights, he’s all too used to the feeling but without the adrenaline of a battle he thinks his knees might just give out under him. Felix’s hair is cropped short, like it was shaved down to the scalp at some point but has had time to grow out just a bit, just enough to look soft to the touch. It frees up his face, the angles of his jaw and high cheekbones standing out even more now that there’s no choppy fringe falling over them. The shadows under his eyes have lightened up, or maybe that’s the smile on his lips, as unrestrained as Sylvain hasn’t seen him since they were kids.

“My father is still out hunting,” Sylvain blurts and Felix blinks up at him in confusion.

“I don’t really care about seeing him,” he starts but before he can get any further Sylvain quickly pulls him through the main entrance into the castle.

It’s been too long. It’s been almost a year since the end of the war, since Sylvain left the capital. Suddenly he feels younger, not in the heavy way the lonely winter had made him feel, but like an excited school boy, the kind he maybe never really got to be. He steers them into the first free room, the library, and firmly shuts the doors behind them.

“It’s been so long,” he breathes out.

There’s a faintly amused quirk to Felix’s lips as he leans his head to the side.

“You know we’ve gone longer without seeing each other.”

Sylvain laughs a little at that and leans back against the wall. Of course they have. There’s been an entire war separating them. There’s been so much _more_ separating them.

“I should have woven you a garland,” he says instead. The words feel heavy, the way his casual flirtations never did. But this is different. This admission bears more consequences. “But we don’t really have any white roses around here.”

Felix’s eyes widen just a little and he raises one hand before stopping, halfway up to Sylvain’s face, hovering awkwardly in the air between them.

“It’s okay.” His voice catches a bit, the way it’s done since they were kids every time someone forces Felix to talk about _emotions_. “We can plant some for next year.”

His voice is hurried and then, all at once he reaches up the rest of the way and tugs Sylvain down by the back of his neck, pressing their lips together.

Sylvain whines out a surprised noise against his mouth before kissing back. It feels like no other kiss before, Felix’s lips just a little chapped against his own, and when he rests his hands on Felix’s hips they’re sturdy under his palms.

Felix’s fingertips ghost against this side of his neck, tracing the shape of his jawline before wandering up to untie the ribbon holding his hair together. Red locks tumble out and Felix runs his fingers through them, tugging slightly until Sylvain follows the pressure and tries to stifle a broken gasp.

They separate, both breathing heavily, and Sylvain let’s his head fall forward until their foreheads rest against each other.

“I missed you too,” Felix whispers into the space between them. “If that’s what you were trying to say.”

-

The gown is the newest addition to his collection. It’s a well hidden secret, although it doesn’t fit in his box. It’s black with wine red trimmings, a simple cut with short sleeves that leave a hint of his shoulders bare just-so. The dress falls almost all the way down to the floor but he has no matching shoes for it yet.

He’s put on the lipstick again. It’s a little worn down by now and he think a different color would have been more fitting but so far it’s the only one he has. He’s also found a little metal tin filled with rouge powder, just the faintest hint of color when dabbed along his cheeks.

It’s the first time he’s put it all on together. Standing in front of the mirror now, barefoot and with his hair loose he doesn’t look like the knight in the story anymore. He wouldn’t mind being the knight, not the version of one he has in his head, sincere and honorable, but he doesn’t mind being the maiden for a bit either.

Felix knocks on the door before he enters, even though Sylvain had asked him to come to his room. When he steps inside Felix looks like a man witnessing a miracle. His eyes are wide, mouth fallen open a little in a breathless o-shape and he shakes his head once, quickly, before pulling the door shut behind him as he steps into the room.

Sylvain laughs into the awkward silence and rests one hand on his own hip to strike a pose.

“Stunning, right?” He hopes the shake in his voice isn’t audible through the joking confidence.

Felix still stands speechless.

Then he takes, one, two, three quick strides until he’s standing directly in front of Sylvain and cups his face in both hands. Sylvain leans gently into the touch and closes his eyes. They stand like this for a while, Felix’s thumb rubbing slow circles into his skin and Sylvain’s shoulders relaxing a bit more with every breath. Then, delicately, Felix pulls his face down and kisses him. It’s not as hurried as their previous kisses, no desperation. When he pulls back again Sylvain’s eyes flutter open. There’s a slight smudge of lipstick against Felix’s lips and the sight makes Sylvain remember an idea from years ago, the thought of what those lipstick mark would look like against his throat.

“You’ve never looked prettier,” Felix breathes out and kisses him again.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! if you liked it i'd be thrilled about a comment!  
> you can also find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/InkCaviness) and retweet this [here](https://twitter.com/InkCaviness/status/1308153920963981313?s=19)!


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